The scent of old stone fills my lungs,
echoes of footsteps threading the hallways
in patterns worn thin by time.
I open my eyes slowly
shapes dissolve into meaning.
Ideas, paragraphs, erased words, pure poems
I let them go,
believing they were no longer needed.
But I was wrong.
Somewhere in my chest,
language still rises with my breath.
Pain never made me write,
and joy
joy has always lived in my imagination.
This world feels hollow
studying, working, worrying
never enough time for love.
Capitalism crushes it,
renders it an afterthought.
And my love?
Lost at sea,
where even the drowning seem divine,
like the last words you gave me
beautiful,
and only half true.
There is something still there.
And I...
I am the blind